


A Trope Too Far

by Persiflager



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Crack, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 02:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=128466438#t128466438"> this prompt</a> on the kinkmeme that asked for Trope!John waking up one morning to discover that he's got the wrong Trope!Sherlock and going through various fanfic worlds in search of the right one.</p>
<p>I've identified the less obvious tropes in the comments for each chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The kind and awesome [consulting_smartass](http://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass) has made this into a [podfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1080579)!

John stretched and yawned, revelling in the rare luxury of a lie-in. He was warm and comfortable and the flat was blessedly quiet. There was an odd smell though - the faint trace of something chemical that he couldn’t immediately identify. He scrunched up his nose as the acrid tang tickled his nostrils and eventually had to resort to opening his eyes.

His immediate vision was filled by Sherlock’s face, bright-eyed behind a pair of safety goggles. The chemical smell appeared to be originating from his hair.

“Morning,” said John, not moving.

Sherlock reached out with one finger and traced around John’s left eye. “Fascinating,” he murmured.

“What is?”

“You look identical.”

John decided that he was going to need to be upright to cope with this. He pushed Sherlock off to the side and sat up against the headboard. He yawned again, rubbed his eyes, and glanced round the room in an effort to avoid dealing with the world’s weirdest alarm clock.

“Did you change my duvet cover while I was asleep?”

“No. What else is different?” Sherlock was rubbing his hands together, positively vibrating with energy.

John squinted at Sherlock. “Why, what have you done?”

“I’ll explain if you tell me what changes you can spot.”

John sighed. “Fine. But you’re putting everything back afterwards.” He looked to the left of the bed and saw a medical textbook. “I wasn’t reading that.”

“Good.”

“Um …” he scanned round the room, his gaze landing on the chair by the wall where he dumped half-worn clothes. “Those aren’t the clothes I was wearing yesterday.”

“Excellent. Anything else?”

John looked round again and shook his head. “Nothing obvious.”

“And what about me?”

“You?”

“Yes. Is there anything different about me?”

John sighed in a very put-upon manner and looked properly at Sherlock. Apart from the goggles, he looked just as he usually did when he’d been up half the night doing god knows what - mad and frizzy. John looked closer and frowned.

“Is that a fake scar on your forehead?”

Sherlock clapped his hands together and leapt up. “Oh, this is brilliant. I’m brilliant. You sound just like him.”

“Just like who?”

Before Sherlock could respond, the bedroom door opened. The person in the doorway was wearing a white coat, had a stethoscope round his neck, and looked exactly like John.

The new arrival stared at John and groaned. “Oh bollocks,” he said in John’s voice. “You _didn’t_.”

…

Half an hour and two cups of tea later, John was still not clear on what was going on.

“Hang on,” he said to Sherlock, who’d erected a flipchart in the kitchen. “Go back to the bit about alternate dimensions again.” It had been made clear to him that the person he was speaking to wasn’t the Sherlock he knew but as he looked and sounded exactly the same, John had decided to just stick to ‘Sherlock’ for now. The morning had been confusing enough already without re-naming his flatmate.

The fact that Sherlock now appeared to literally be the only fixed point in his universe was in no way comforting.

Sherlock sighed. “I really can’t make this any clearer. There are infinite realities, yes?”

“Right.”

“And in a finite subset of those realities, you exist.”

“Define ‘me’. If they’re all different, how can you tell if they’re me or not?” 

Sherlock looked pleased. “Good question! For the purposes of this experiment, I’ve confined the dataset to individuals matching your DNA sequence.”

“Ok.” John thought carefully about his next question. The question ‘why’ was at the top of his mind but he had a pretty good hunch that that wouldn’t lead anywhere useful, or even comprehensible. “Can you put me back?”

“Oh, probably,” said Sherlock, waving one hand dismissively.

“Let me rephrase that. Put me back. Now.”

“But you’ve only just got here!” Sherlock looked scandalised. 

Other John wandered into the kitchen, drying his hair. “Yeah. Sorry Sherlock, but this really isn’t on. What if he had plans today?” Other John had disappeared to have a shower after lending John some clothes; John suspected he was finding staring at his doppelganger just as uncomfortable as John did.

Sherlock glanced at John. “He didn’t.”

“Not the point. Look you can’t just…”

John let the conversation wash over him as he tried to get a grasp on the situation. It had all seemed like a fuzzy sort of waking dream at first, but now he was starting to get seriously concerned. Apart from anything else, there was a Sherlock back in his own reality who’d been left alone without John to back him up, and that always made John twitchy.

“Anyway,” said Sherlock fretfully, “it’s all irrelevant. The singularity is a fixed point in time as well as space - John will go back to the point at which he left.”

John perked up. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and stared at the flipchart. His stance was a masterpiece in ‘how to convey a sulk using only the curve of your spine’.

John shared a look with Other John. “If you’re absolutely sure I’ll be back at the same moment … I suppose I could stay for a couple of hours.”

Sherlock spun round and beamed at them. “Excellent. John - no, not you - right, for the sake of clarity I’m going to call my John ‘John A’ and you can be ‘John B’. John A, fetch your full medical kit. We’re going to run a _lot_ of tests.”

…

Sherlock wasn’t kidding about the tests. Over the next two hours John was poked, prodded, squeezed, palpated and had samples taken of every easily accessible bodily fluid and skin cell.

“Ow!” He winced as Sherlock pulled hairs from a sore spot on his scalp.

“Are you all right?” asked Other John (John refused to think of him as ‘John A’), looking up with an air of professional concern.

“Yeah, I just hit my head yesterday. Well, someone hit it for me.”

“Let me see.” Other John put down the sample he was labelling and came over to inspect the top of John’s head. His touch was gentle. “Hmm … you should probably have had stitches in this, you know,” he said with a tone of mild reproof. John bit back the urge to apologise. 

“Oh, he’s fine, stop fussing over him,” said Sherlock. There was an edge of manic irritability in his voice that made John want to hide the coffee. “I’ve only got six more hours and we haven’t even _begun_ the psychological tests.”

John put his head in his hands and groaned.

…

When Sherlock had _finally_ finished questioning John about every aspect of his life, Other John insisted that John stayed for dinner before going back to his dimension. While Other John was on the phone to the Chinese and Sherlock was making adjustments to his machine, John took the opportunity to explore the flat.

“Is yours the same, then?” asked Other John, walking into the living room.

“The flat? Pretty much,” said John. “We don’t have our own generator but most of the rest is the same.” He glanced at the newspapers strewn across the coffee table. “Even the headlines haven’t changed.” He’d been surprised at that, at first, then embarrassed at his own arrogance. Since when did his career choices affect the front-page news?

“Mm. You should take better care of yourself.”

John frowned at Other John. “You’re one to talk.”

“I don’t have as many scars as you do.” Other John looked at him thoughtfully then laughed. “Alright, I wouldn’t take advice from me either.” They shared a sheepish grin in acknowledgment of their shared stubbornness.

….

Sherlock, claiming ‘risk of quantum entanglement’, wouldn’t let either of them look at the machine he’d hidden in the wardrobe of the upstairs bedroom. John was fairly sure that just meant it didn’t look cool enough.

“So,” said Sherlock. “I’ll activate it in five minutes precisely. You’ll have three hours to determine if you’re in the correct reality, after which the singularity will activate again and you’ll be shuffled to the next available one in the sequence.”

“Wait, what?” said both Johns together. John glanced at Other John, who nodded for him to continue. “I thought you were going to send me straight home.”

Sherlock glared. “I explained all this earlier. Weren’t you listening?”

“I am absolutely sure you didn’t mention this.”

Sherlock sighed a put-upon sigh. “I can only match you to one of a handful of close realities. You’ll have to skip between them until you find the right one.”

John narrowed his eyes. “How many’s a handful?”

“Thirty-two at most. May I continue?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at both of them. Hearing no objection, he carried on. “The mechanism is voice-activated. When you’re sure you’re home, say-”

“There’s no place like home,” interrupted Other John, grinning.

John laughed.

Sherlock looked slightly confused. “Fine, if you’ll remember it.” He fiddled with what looked like a large remote control.

“What if I want to leave sooner?” asked John. “It might be obvious really quickly.”

“Then say ‘Vatican Cameos’,” said Sherlock, tapping away at the buttons.

John nodded. “Will do.” There was a slightly awkward silence where he and Other John clearly both felt they should say something significant but couldn’t come up with anything. He settled for a quick salute, which Other John returned with a wry smile.

“Ready?” Sherlock had a slightly odd expression - at a guess, John would say it was a combination of sentiment and annoyance at having his specimen taken away.

John nodded again and the world expanded, shrank to an infintesimal point and went dark. When he opened his eyes again, the room was empty and the duvet cover was back to the one he remembered. Familiar violin sounds drifted up from the living room.

John sighed with relief and headed downstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

The noises stopped before John reached the living room. He found Sherlock standing by the living room window, staring out onto the street with his violin hanging loosely from one hand. 

“Morning,” said John.

Sherlock ignored him, which was an encouraging sign. 

John stepped closer to see if something particularly interesting was happening outside. As he did so a stray beam of sunlight burst through the cloud and illuminated Sherlock’s face, and it was if John was seeing him for the first time. Sherlock’s alabaster skin glowed as if lit by an inner light. His hair was as dark and shiny as a raven carved out of ebony. He blinked, and each dark lash was clear against his ivory cheeks. John looked at his eyes and was instantly lost in their shifting, blue-green-grey depths.

John suddenly felt very, very afraid. “Um,” he said, backing away slowly. “I’m just going to …”

A single, crystalline tear rolled down Sherlock’s face. It seemed to change shape and texture as it fell, and broke apart with a high, tinkling crash when it hit the floor.

Still backing away, John heard the door opening behind him. 

“Sorry breakfast’s late, I’ve just been helping Mrs Hudson with her-”

John turned round to see a startled-looking version of himself standing in the doorway with a plastic bag of shopping dangling from one hand.

“Don’t panic,” said John, holding his hands up in the universal ‘calm down’ gesture. “I’m … ok, this is going to sound a bit weird, but I’m an alternative version of you from a parallel universe.”

Other John stared at him then smiled. “Ok. Would you like some tea?” He wandered through to the kitchen without waiting for a response. 

John followed.

“Sorry,” he said, watching Other John put the shopping away, “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute but I’ve got to know - what’s up with Sherlock?”

Other John grimaced. “Had a run-in with Anderson yesterday. The f-word was used.”

John blinked. “What, ‘fuck’?”

“No, of course not.” Other John glanced towards the living room before continuing in a lowered tone. “ _You_ know. F-R-E-A-K.”

“Right. And that’s it, is it?”

Other John raised his eyebrows. “Yes? He’s very sensitive.”

“JOHN!” bellowed Sherlock. “There are tear shards around my feet again!”

Other John stopped what he was doing immediately and went to the cupboard under the sink, emerging with a dustpan and brush. “Sorry, do you mind waiting a minute for tea? I’d better just deal with this.” 

He trotted over to Sherlock, knelt down, and began sweeping up the mysterious crystal fragments. As John watched, another stray beam of sunlight caught Other John’s hair in a fuzzy golden halo.

John shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll just be off then,” he called. “Um … Vatican Cameos.”

The last thing he saw before the world vanished was Sherlock and Other John diving in opposite directions.


	3. Chapter 3

John was back in the upstairs bedroom. The wallpaper was different this time but he decided to pause and take stock of his surroundings before rushing off to the next reality. He’d come back to the same place again, which was good, and judging by the light it looked about the same time. He checked the alarm clock by the bed - 10:32. Okay, so Sherlock hadn’t been lying about that, and when he did get back to his own world it would be like no time had passed at all. That was a relief.

But time was passing for him, John realised; he had the memories of each reality and he still had a faint taste of garlic in his mouth from the Chinese take-away he’d shared with the first alternative pair. In which case it would probably be a good idea to take the time to eat, drink and use the loo while he could, in case he found himself in a less hospitable world next. Maybe even sleep, if it took that long.

That was an unsettling thought. John shook himself and headed downstairs.

He walked quietly, trying to avoid startling the inhabitants, but quickly realised he needn’t have bothered - judging by the racket coming from Sherlock’s bedroom, he could have tap-danced down the stairs in steel-toe boots without being heard.

John stood in the kitchen and listened to his own grunts and Sherlock’s familiar groans with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. The rhythmic thumping of Sherlock’s bed-frame against the wall accompanied their duet beautifully, and the whole cacophony crescendoed to a frenzied climax that he narrowly resisted applauding. 

John made a quick adjustment to his mental list of priorities for when he got home.

Knowing that his other self would come out in a moment to get a glass of water, John moved to stand on the far side of the kitchen with his hands nice and visible. Sure enough, Other John wandered out a couple of minutes later, tousled, flushed, and with Sherlock’s second-best dressing gown wrapped loosely round him.

Other John caught sight of John and stopped still. “What the hell?”

“Alternate universe,” said John, holding his hands up again. “Sherlock - not your Sherlock - invented some mad machine. I’ll be here three hours at most.”

Sherlock appeared behind Other John, wrapped in a sheet and presumably curious about the sound of John apparently talking to himself. His eyes went wide when he saw John.

“Alternate reality?” he said eventually. John nodded.

Other John took his eyes off John for a moment to look up at Sherlock. “Don’t tell me you believe that.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Unless you have an identical twin that you don’t know about.”

Other John narrowed his eyes at John. “First kiss,” he demanded.

“Toby Parkinson, but I tell everyone it was Debbie Shepherd. He tasted of Lucozade.”

Other John relaxed. “Ok.” He looked at John thoughtfully. “How long did you say you’d be here?”

“Three hours, but I can leave earlier if I need to.”

“Do you need to?” Other John was smiling at him now, and his eyes were bright, and oh god he was being flirted with by himself. 

“Not … need to, no.” Oh god, now he was flirting _back_.

“Oh _John_ ,” breathed Sherlock. “That’s brilliant.” 

…

Two minutes later John was being shoved onto the bed by an enthusiastic Sherlock.

“Alright then,” said John breathlessly, grinning. He pulled his t-shirt and jumper over his head and threw them to the floor.

Sherlock untangled himself from his sheet. John paused with his zip halfway down and stared in disbelief. “Bloody hell.”

“What?”

“Your cock. Is … really big. Um, wow.”

“Is it?” Sherlock looked non-plussed.

Other John chose that moment to walk in, having drunk his post-shag glass of water. He dropped his dressing gown casually to the floor and John’s jaw dropped. “You too?” 

“What?”

“John is expressing surprise at our penis sizes,” explained Sherlock. “I assume that his is smaller than yours.”

“Oi! There’s nothing wrong with my cock. This,” said John, waving at his crotch, “is perfectly average, thank you very much. It’s you two that have implausibly large knobs. You could put someone’s eye out with that.”

“Does it matter?” Other John sat down next to John and rested one hand on his thigh. “Come on, get these off so we can give Sherlock a good seeing to.”

John took a deep breath, concentrated on the imminent shagging and took his trousers off.

“Hm,” rumbled Sherlock. “That does have certain logistical advantages.” And it really said something about John’s love-life that that was one of the nicest compliments he’d had in ages.

…

 

John lay on his back, chest heaving, and stared at the ceiling. “Oh my god.”

“Mm.” Sherlock was lying next to him. They were soaked with sweat. “What a lovely spitroast. I have to say, a smaller penis is really very good for buggery.”

“Oi,” said John without any real force. “Stop calling it small.”

“I didn’t say ‘small’, I said ‘smaller’.”

“Ssh, both of you.” Other John walked in from the kitchen and handed each of them a glass of water. “Is it my turn in the middle next or do you want a go?”

John sat up and gulped down the water. “You’ll have to give me a minute.”

Other John’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Refractory period?” He looked between at their blank faces and sighed. “Of course not. It’s a … thing that we have in my reality, where it takes us a little while to get it up again after sex. That and small cocks, apparently.”

Sherlock patted his thigh consolingly. “It really is very conven-”

“If you say that again I will smack you.”


	4. Chapter 4

After the third round John’s libido finally went on strike so he made his excuses and left the bedroom. He took a much-needed shower and just had time to drink a cup of coffee before the clock ticked over to 1:32 and he fell through the worlds again.

This time his bedroom looked exactly as he remembered it except for the fact that Sherlock was curled up on his bed, wearing his pyjamas and apparently fast asleep.

A warm wave of affection swept through John’s chest. “Sher-”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. When he saw John he sat up, looking guilty. “You’re back early.”

John’s heart sank - in his own reality, he hadn’t been anywhere.

“I didn’t hear the front door,” said Sherlock, narrowing his eyes.

“You were asleep.”

“I always hear the front door.” Sherlock unfolded himself, standing up and walking across to John. John stayed stock still and stared at the wall as this Sherlock looked him over and traced the lines on his face.

“You’re not John.”

“Yes and no.”

“What have you done with him?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and controlled, his body tense. 

“Nothing.”

Sherlock frowned down at John.”Explain.”

John kept his breathing deliberately calm and steady. “I’m him from another universe. Or reality, I’m not really clear on the details. I’m just trying to get home.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please-”

“I can prove it.” John took a moment to think. “I shot the cabbie.”

“Obvious. Anyone could work that-”

“You take honey on your toast, not jam. You’re ticklish behind your left knee but not your right, and you have no idea why. When you were five you told your mum that you wanted to be like Mycroft when you grew up. You’re crap at karaoke, you don’t know how the solar system works, you can’t sleep if your feet are cold and when you retire you’re planning to write the most boring book in the world.” 

John held his breath. 

An interesting range of expressions ran across Sherlock’s face before ‘annoyance’ settled in place. “It won’t be boring.”

John exhaled.“You’ve got three different chapters on mud - of course it will be boring.” He grinned at Sherlock. “So, where’s your John?”

Sherlock stepped back to a socially appropriate distance. John found it disconcerting. “Girlfriend.”

“What’s her name?” Half curiosity, half testing to see if this Sherlock was any better at remembering.

“Mary,” said Sherlock, his lip curling up in distaste.

John tried to think of any Marys that he knew. “From the gym?”

Sherlock shrugged eloquently, simultaneously conveying his lack of knowledge, his lack of caring, and his contempt for the question. A thought occurred to John, and he was about to ask why Sherlock had been sleeping on his bed when there was the sound of the front door opening.

Sherlock whipped round, his entire body re-orienting towards the open door as if he was made of metal and someone had just turned on an enormous electromagnet in the stairwell.

“Up here!” he called.

“What are you doing in my room?” was the faint reply. 

Sherlock didn’t respond. He stared at the doorway for a moment with an unreadable expression until some instinct made him look up at John.

“What?”

“Nothing,” said John, wondering if his Sherlock ever looked at him like that.

Other John finally reached the top of the stairs and made it two steps into the room before he noticed John. His mouth fell open.

“Hi,” said John.”

“Alternate reality,” said Sherlock with a sniff, exactly as if he’d known about such things for years. “He’s not dangerous.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“No more dangerous than you are,” amended Sherlock.

“Right,” said Other John, still staring. 

“A Sherlock in another dimension yanked me over for an experiment but hadn’t entirely thought through the ‘getting me home’ part.”

“Right,” said Other John again. “That … sounds quite plausible, actually. How’s it going so far?”

John tried _really_ hard not to think about the last world. “Oh, you know. Fine.” He could feel his ears burning. He risked a glance up at Sherlock, whose nostrils flared briefly before his eyes went wide.

“With yourself? Or me?”

John shifted his feet. “Um …”

Sherlock looked faintly scandalised, which was a look to treasure. 

Other John looked between them. “What?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “It appears that your counterpart isn’t quite so heterosexual as you are.”

“I’m not heterosexual.”

“Yes you are.”

“I am not.” They were both frowning. John watched, fascinated; it was oddly reassuring to know that he and his Sherlock weren’t the only pair to start with an argument.

“You’re always insisting you’re not gay.”

“And I’m not. I’m bi.”

“Since when?” Sherlock had his hands on his hips and looked as if he’d just been slapped in the face with a kipper (which John could confirm from personal experience).

“Since always.”

“You never said.”

“You never asked.”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped to Other John’s mouth, and Other John licked his lips.

“Well, I’ll be off then,” said John to the zero people who were paying attention. Nobody paid attention to his mumbled code phrase either, and John smiled as the world disappeared and reassembled itself around him.


	5. Chapter 5

John was still smiling when he opened his eyes again.

 _This isn’t too bad after all_ , he thought as he scanned the room for any distinguishing marks. _More fun than I would have expected. Still, I’ll be glad to get home._

The room looked largely as he remembered it. John stepped closer to check the bedside table. Oh. That was … odd. That was the book he’d been reading but it was covered in a fine layer of dust. Now that he looked, so was everything else in the room. The air smelt musty, as if the room had been locked up for months.

A horrible thought occurred to him. What if he’d come back to the right time but the wrong day? Or week or month or .. oh god. How long had he been gone?

John searched the room frantically but there was nothing with the date on it - no newspapers, no sign of his mobile or laptop. _Fuck_. He was so _stupid_ , wasting time with all these imitation Sherlocks when the real one had been left here on his own without a single clue to tell him where John had gone.

John stopped searching and ran down the stairs. The door to the living room was unlocked, and creaked as he opened it. 

“Sherlock?” Stepping carefully into the room, John looked around until he spotted a blanket-covered lump on the sofa.

“Sherlock. It’s me, John.” He walked slowly over to the sofa, keeping his voice calm. How long had it been? “I’m sorry, it’s a bit tricky to explain, but I’m back now.”

The lump stirred. “John?” Sherlock’s voice was rough from disuse.

John swallowed. “Yes. I’m so, so sorry.”

Sherlock sat up, rubbing his eyes, and stared at John. He looked like he hadn’t shaved for weeks. “Impossible.”

“Not for a genius.” John hesitated before continuing, but he needed to know. “How long was I gone?”

Sherlock’s gaze roamed slowly over him, taking its time. “Too long,” he said eventually.

John closed his eyes briefly to escape the disbelieving, hopeful, terrified look on Sherlock’s face. 

“How about some tea?” he asked brightly, and turned without waiting for a response. He looked from side to side on the way to the kitchen, greedily drinking his fill of the familiar sights. There were a few minor changes - only to be expected given the time that had passed - but only one that made him pause and roll his eyes.

“Did you really need another skull?”

Sherlock’s soft, quick footsteps came up behind him. John was about to turn when pain, bright and incomprehensible, blossomed over the back of his head. He fell heavily to the floor and passed out.

…

Consciousness washed over John, leaving him with a fiercely throbbing head and a dry, gummy mouth. He opened his eyes a crack. The living room rug danced in front of his eyes and he followed the familiar curves and swirls of the pattern, delaying the moment when he had to find out what was going on and deal with it.

Hang on - the stain had gone. The light purplish stain just to the left of the worn patch in front of his chair, from one of Sherlock’s experiments gone wrong - John had spent hours scrubbing that with all sorts of cleaners and hadn’t managed to do more than lighten it a bit. Now it had completely disappeared, which didn’t make sense … oh. The memories of his recent hops through other worlds flooded back into his mind and John realised that he must be in an alternative reality. Which meant that this wasn’t his Sherlock, and he hadn’t been missing for months.

Thank God for that.

Satisfied with his reasoning and relieved beyond measure, John looked up to see Other Sherlock sitting in the other armchair. He was now fully dressed, staring at John and twirling a small kitchen knife in one hand.

John shifted instinctively in his chair and realised his wrists were strapped to the arm of the chair. He tried to move his ankles - no, they were trapped as well. His pulse started to race, and it was only with some effort that he reminded himself that he only needed to say two words to leave.

“I’m afraid I can’t untie you until I can trust you not to run away again,” said Other Sherlock in a calm, reasonable voice.

The look in his eyes was thoughtful, intent, and utterly devoid of humanity. A shudder ran down John’s spine. It was _obscene_ , that thing having Sherlock’s face and voice without his personality to warm them, and John felt Sherlock’s absence more keenly for the physical reminder.

“What happened to you?” 

“Lestrade’s still looking for you.” Other Sherlock continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “Sally suspects but no-one listens to her - cried ‘psychopath’ one too many times.” Other Sherlock grinned, and his mouth was too full of teeth.

“You’re not him.” John felt the need to say it, for the record. “You’re not Sherlock.”

“Sure about that?” There was a brief flash of dark humour in Other Sherlock’s eyes, and John’s chest ached.

“Very.”

“I think,” said Other Sherlock dreamily, light glinting off the blade in his hands, “it’s the sounds you make that I’ve missed the most. If I’d known just how much I’d miss them, I’d have taken better care of you. I will now.”

“No, you won’t. Vatican Cameos.” As he spoke John saw a spasm of pain cross Other Sherlock’s face. With a wordless cry he launched himself at John, and the last thing John felt as the world darkened was a long, thin hand clutching at his shirt-front.


	6. Chapter 6

In the next world, John once again interrupted himself and Sherlock having sex. Well, he would have interrupted if they hadn’t been completely absorbed on what looked like an absolutely epic shag, judging by the state of the sheets and the stink of the room.

John only paused long enough to note that (a) a fondness for morning sex seemed to be one of his universal constants, (b) Other John appeared to have got a bit carried away with the lube, and (c) Sherlock had once again been over-blessed in the trouser department. Bastard. Oh well, at least Other John seemed to be appreciating it.

…

In the one after that, his room was covered in dog hair and there was a large, empty cage up against the wall. A strange, oily mist was seeping under the door, rising to form a vaguely human shape.

“Sorry, wrong number,” said John, and he was gone before the mist finished solidifying.

…

John opened his eyes to see what looked like quite a cheerful upstairs dungeon. Other John was naked, blindfolded, gagged, and kneeling on the bed with his head bowed. There was a slim black collar clasped around his neck. His arms were suspended above his head, attached by rope to a hook in the ceiling, and his entire body was criss-crossed with a complicated pattern of cords.

John’s first instinct was to leave - this obviously wasn’t his reality and he was impatient to get back - but the ache at the back of his head reminded him that not every version of Sherlock could be trusted. He stepped closer.

“Hello.”

Other John’s head snapped up.

“I just wanted to check that you were ok.”

Other John raised one of his eyebrows above the edge of his blindfold. John reached forward and pulled it up a bit so that Other John could see him. Other John’s other eyebrow shot up to join the first.

“Bit complicated. Can you just confirm that you’re happy with all of this?”

Other John’s gaze flicked down to his erection and back up.

John looked in spite of himself. “Yes, alright. So, Sherlock’s not … abusing you?”

Other John looked offended at the suggestion.

“Well, good. Sorry to have disturbed you.” John smiled politely, tugged the blindfold back into place, and made his exit.

…

The bedroom in front of John looked and smelt exactly as it had when he left it. No more dust than usual, no whips, chains, dog bowls or doppelgangers. He crossed his fingers and went downstairs, where he found Sherlock eating the leftover Chinese from last night and reading a newspaper.

“Morning,” said John tentatively.

Sherlock grunted in response. He looked like he usually did first thing in the morning - rumpled and grouchy. “Not a single murder, and all the thefts are utterly transparent. What’s wrong with the criminal classes?”

“Well, they’re criminals,” said John, checking the contents of the fridge. “Not generally known for being helpful.”

“Mm.” 

Sherlock carried on flicking through the paper while John wandered through the flat, peering at the contents of the bin, his desk, the internet search history on his laptop. Not a single thing out of place.

John grinned to himself, standing by the window in the pale morning sun. “There’s no place like-”

There was a large crash and he ducked instinctively, throwing his arms over his head to protect himself against the flying shards of glass from the window. Someone landed heavily to his left. John spun round and lunched himself at the intruder, tackling him to the ground.

He was a big man, dressed all in black, and struggled vigorously. John held him still with one hand wrapped tightly around his throat before landing an stiff uppercut on his jaw with his free hand. The man fell limp.

John climbed off and was about to go in search of something to restrain the man with when someone else burst in through the front door with a shotgun. John dropped to the floor, rolled across the carpet of broken glass and grabbed the spare handgun from underneath the sofa. He rolled back over onto his back and raised one arm just in time to shoot the second intruder in the knee as he came round the corner. The man dropped his gun as he fell to the floor, shouting and clutching at his leg. 

John slowly, painfully stood up. He was covered in hundreds of tiny cuts, his left hand throbbed from where he’d slugged the first intruder and he still had a sore head from the other bumps he’d suffered recently. He limped slowly across the room and picked up the shotgun. 

“Home,” he said at last. “There’s no place like home.”

…

“You could have helped, you know,” said John later, when their two assailants had been taken away by some of Mycroft’s men. 

“I have absolute faith in your abilities.”

“You have absolute faith in being a lazy git.” John winced as he bent down to the kitchen cupboard.

Sherlock watched him for a moment before leaping up. “Here, I’ll get that.”

“You’ll need to use the-”

“Yes, yes, do you think I haven’t swept up broken glass before?”

John sat down gratefully at the kitchen table. The newspaper that had so offended Sherlock had been stabbed to the table with a small, sharp knife. John stared at it for a couple of minutes.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t ever change.”

Sherlock came back into the kitchen and stared at John, dustpan in one hand and brush in the other. “Did you hit your head?”

“No. Well yes, a couple of times, but that’s not why. It’s just – you’re perfect. As you are. That’s all.” John could feel the tops of his ears turning red. By the standards of their usual conversations about emotions, this was a lengthy speech.

Sherlock still looked suspicious, and it was such a familiar look that it made John’s heart soar.

“Right,” he said decisively, getting up from the table. “I’m going to have a shower and a nap while you’re doing that and then I’d like to take you to bed, if you don’t mind.” John grinned. “I’ve had some _brilliant_ new ideas.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Trope Too Far](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080579) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)
  * [[Cover Art] for Persiflager's 'A Trope Too Far'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3422396) by [livloveel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livloveel/pseuds/livloveel)




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